


bring me home

by TheIndianWinter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A Narrowboat, Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Lots of wine, M/M, With a side of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 14:29:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19465927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIndianWinter/pseuds/TheIndianWinter
Summary: “There is something I’ve been wanting to ask,” Aziraphale trailed off, then gestured exasperatedly around himself at the boat. “What in the ever-loving hell possessed you to disappear off and buy a narrowboat?”“Just that," Crowley said. "Hell came knocking.”





	bring me home

**Author's Note:**

> So I was working on this fic in a document titled 'canal boat au because why the fuck not,' as it was inspired by me seeing some narrowboats (traditional UK canal boats, they're long and narrow (hence the name) and normally really pretty and painted). It got away from me a little bit. I also now know way more about narrowboats and the British canal system than I ever thought I would.  
> If you like, you can come find me on my little corner of [tumblr.](https://theindianwinter.tumblr.com/)  
> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated (generally, I scream a little).  
> I hope you enjoy!

**_bring me home_ **

_Just as you find your feet, life comes and pulls the rug out from under you._

Hell doesn’t give warning.

Crowley had hoped that no news was good news. Since Armageddon’t, he and Aziraphale had been left in a cosy, comfortable little peace. Yet, there had been a little niggle in the back of his mind, a little anxiety that whispered, _Hell doesn’t forgive, Hell doesn’t forget_. 

He ignored it, however, because he could finally, finally enjoy the angel’s company without the blasted question of sides.

So, as he exited the Bentley one late Spring morning, and felt the little hairs on his neck stand to attention, he swallowed thickly and gripped the pot of his new plant tighter. 

(It was a delightful little grey-green succulent with spines along its pointed leaves. He had already named it Delilah. It was going to look lovely in his kitchen.)

He stepped into the hallway and was greeted by his upstairs neighbour, Ms. Lyle. 

“There’s someone here to see you,” she said. A wave of dread crashed into Crowley, running dark and soupy down his spine like oil. 

“A Mr. La Vista. Quite an odd man.”

Crowley nodded. Then patted his pockets for show.

“Oh, wouldn’t you know? I’ve left my phone in the car.”

He gave Ms. Lyle a tight smile as they parted ways on the doorstep. 

As he rested his head on the steering wheel, he attempted to regulate his breathing and figure out a plan. 

Aziraphale. 

He needed Aziraphale. 

Shakily, he put the keys in the ignition and pulled out into the traffic. 

So Hell was back. That meant Heaven was back too. 

They were supposed to be left alone. 

What were they going to do? 

Crowley could not go back to Hell. He would not go back to Hell. He wouldn’t give up the little existence he had carved out for himself, he wouldn’t give up earth, wouldn’t give up Aziraphale. 

As he pulled up outside the shop, he could see the sneering form of Sandalphon through the dusty windows.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

Fuckety shit.

He drove to a tiny run-down cafe near Swiss Cottage, mind racing. Aziraphale loved the breakfasts here. It was owned by a blunt old Glaswegian named Flora. It was the only place in London that did decent Lorne sausage and tattie scones. The coffee was average at best. Crowley put up with it.

Flo nodded at him as he entered, clutching Delilah like a lifeline. 

He sat facing through the window, tension running through every limb and working his foot against the cheap laminate flooring. 

What was he going to do?

A mug of black coffee was placed in front of him. 

“Where’s the other one?” Flo asked.

Crowley tamped down the unease that crawled up his throat like bile.

“He’s at the shop today.”

Flo frowned slightly, but disappeared back behind the counter. Crowley stared at his distorted reflection in the surface of the coffee, fighting off each and every worst case scenario as they crept into his head, whispering tales of death, destruction and desolation. 

In the corner of the cafe, a television that seemed about ten years too old to still function was playing a children’s channel for no real reason. Even muted, it was colourful, cloying and so very loud in his peripheral. He waited, but no Hastur came to rain violence and death on board Rosie and Jim’s painted boat. 

Halfway through his mug, an idea started to take root, and by the time he reached the silty dregs at the bottom, it had blossomed into the bones of something that just might work.

He left a note for Aziraphale with Flo, a spaghetti bolognese sticker on the top deck of a number 19 bus, a rubber snake wrapped around a little boat bath toy at the bandstand and at the bench in St James’s he left a postcard from the Tate Britain, onto which he wrote ‘God hath given you one face and you make yourselves another.’ 

He left the Bentley around the corner from the Ritz, and gave it a forlorn pat on the hood before he descended into the Tube with only Delilah and a desperate hope that Aziraphale would find his breadcrumbs. 

He drifted warily through the crowds at Euston, but he found his way onto the train without incident (and by incident he meant the appearance of any occult or ethereal forces. A shitty little chihuahua had tried to eat one of Delilah’s leaves whilst he waited on one of the cold metal benches. He gave the tiny beast a morbid fear of plants.)

The grey expanse of London soon fell away and Crowley felt the dread that gripped his spine loosen its hold. 

He hadn’t really put much thought into the logistics of finding a canal boat, but the gentleman sat beside him in the pub had grinned when he said he was looking for one because wouldn’t you know, dear boy, I was just about to put a listing up for the old girl, can’t manage her anymore, the way my hip is these days. 

And so Crowley left the pub with a spinning head and the keys to the _Baba O’Riley_. The owner had been slightly bemused that there was a young London-type with the cash to buy her outright on the spot, but he wasn’t going to argue with such divine coincidence, and his lack of questions had made Crowley feel a small surge of gratitude.

Inside the boat, he set Delilah down on the small, chipped table, slouched onto the cushioned bench seat and started work on the bottle of plonk he had bought at the off-licence. (Which he had only bought because he hoped that by the time he moved onto the whisky, he would be tipsy enough to forget that the only whisky they had had in stock was Famous Grouse.)

* * *

He woke in the morning with a crick is his neck and the warning signs of a hangover. He glared at the silly little bird on the empty bottle. 

As Geoff had promised, there was a little jar of instant coffee beside the kettle and he prepared himself a cup, using the boat’s lone chipped mug. 

He ventured outside, sitting down on the grass alongside _Baba O’Riley_ ’s berth. The sun was gentle as it peeked through the soft grey clouds. In the daylight, Crowley could see just how worn the narrowboat looked, it’s black and green paint cracked and faded. Before his power could fully rise to his fingertips, he sighed and looked up at the sky. It was a nice day. He had nothing else to do. Why not do it the human way? 

He remained lazing on the bank long after he finished his coffee. He felt safe enough here, so for once he let himself go slow. 

There was something to be said for taking it easy it seemed, as not long after, _Baba_ ’s former owner appeared smiling. 

“Alright there, son?” asked Geoff. 

Crowley nodded, curving his mouth into what was supposed to be a smile, but it was a little too sharp and a little too worn. 

“I was going to fix up the old girl a wee bit before selling her, so I’ve brought you the paints and stuff I got, and I could lend a hand if you like?”

“I was just thinking of buying some paints actually,” said Crowley. 

Geoff smiled, and gestured for the demon to follow him. 

“I was thinking of renaming the boat, but I’m not quite sure if there’s some etiquette around it.”

The man froze, turning to look at Crowley as if he had just confessed to murder. 

“I’m afraid that’s considered bad luck. But if you’re sure you want to…” he trailed off. 

Crowley chuckled wryly, “I’m not sure I quite believe in luck.”

The look in Geoff’s eyes turned soft with concern, but he nodded all the same. 

(Crowley had already decided on a name for his boat. It was in the clues. If he had any hope of Aziraphale finding him, then he needed to change the boat name.)

“We can do that today then. If we fetch the paints, then I can get the rest of what we need.”

* * *

Crowley stood before the boat, a dry paintbrush in hand. He had no idea what he was doing. Sure, he had once messed around with some sketch pencils in Leonardo’s studio, but he’d never painted anything for practical purposes. Why would he, when he could just think his walls a different colour?

But he’d promised himself to use manual labour, and anyway, if Geoff came back to find his old boat completely transformed, he’d be at best a little suspicious. 

“What you dilly-dallying around for?” Geoff called out, as he reappeared with some more sandpaper and what looked to be three bottles of champagne.

(Crowley had no idea what purpose they served, but he liked his style.)

“Wasn’t quite sure where to start,” he shrugged. 

Geoff glanced warily at the paintbrush in his hand. 

“Well for starters, son, you don’t want to start with that. Need to sand it down first, then we can get to painting. You never painted a room or owt before?”

The demon shook his head, “My flat was already decorated when I moved in.”

Geoff sighed, but the look he gave Crowley was sympathetic. “Fortunately, I only painted the hull last year, so the rest can be done without having to get her out of the water. We can sand her all down first, and we need to make sure there are no traces of the name _Baba O’Riley_ left on her, if you’re wanting to rename her.”

“I was thinking of _Ophelia.”_

Geoff smiled, “Ahh, Shakespeare. A man of taste, I see.”

“ _Hamlet_ is of,” Crowley paused, swallowing thickly. “...great personal significance.”

The look on the man’s face was questioning and sympathetic all at once, but to Crowley’s great relief, he said nothing, and instead just handed Crowley a block wrapped in sandpaper and set to work scrubbing away the careful gold lettering on the side of the boat. 

The work wasn’t in anyway mentally taxing, but it was hard work all the same and by the time the sun had reached its zenith in the sky, both of them were perspiring lightly. Geoff’s daughter and her wife joined them for lunch, with some cold drinks and ham sandwiches. 

The sanding was all done, and between four of them, they made quick work of the first coat of primer. 

* * *

It was well after five, and a fresh coat of black paint was glistening in the late afternoon sun, when Crowley realised that he had barely thought beyond the manual labour at all. Aziraphale was always a constant at the back of his mind, but he had at least been able to set aside his worries for a day. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, so he chose to ignore it and instead accepted the invite to join Geoff, Catriona and Fatima for dinner. 

Afterwards, Geoff returned with him to the narrowboat. 

“Son, we might as well rename her this evening. Then you can get on with painting that design you were talking about.”

Despite the late hour, the evening was still bright and hazy warm. Crowley was content to relax on the bank as Geoff gathered together all he needed - the three bottles of champagne, and then, with Crowley’s permission, he went into the boat to fetch it’s lone CD, a _The Who_ compilation album. 

As much as he loved humans, they were a strange bunch, with all their odd little habits and superstitions and nothing exemplified this to Crowley quite like watching Geoff’s bizarre little ceremony to rename the boat. 

He started by addressing some vaguely rehearsed speech to Neptune (Crowley was sure it wasn’t supposed to have quite so many _yadda, yadda_ ’s), then he forlornly tossed his _The Who_ CD into the canal. He almost intervened when the first bottle of champagne was opened as Geoff immediately poured half of it away, but the action had prompted the little Aziraphale in his head to tut and exclaim ‘Such a waste!’ and this had all reminded Crowley that he was a terrible person because his best friend, his angel was possibly in trouble and he’d barely worried about him all day. 

By the time Geoff had finished tossing the rest of the first bottle in all four of the cardinal directions, Crowley had worked himself up into such a state of anxiety that it was making a nightingale in the vicinity call out a forlorn lament. (The bird itself was shocked by this, as it had intended to sing a lovely little ditty about beetles.)

“Right, the lovely _Ophelia_ awaits you, young Anthony,” Geoff said as he flopped down beside him. When Crowley remained silent, he cast a look over him and smiled sadly. 

“I’m sure he’ll come join you, son, at some point,” he said. He removed the foil from the top of the second bottle of champagne. “You’re a nice lad, and if he’s got any sense, then it’ll all work out, you’ll see.”

Crowley blinked. “I…”

Geoff stopped wrestling with the cork a moment. “You mentioned your young man at the pub yesterday evening. Az-something. Az- Az-”

“Aziraphale.”

“Yes, Aziraphale, that was it. Bit of an unusual name that.”

“He’s an unusual man.”

Geoff chuckled, “Well I don’t presume my words will suddenly make it all better, but at least the champagne might help you forget a short while?”

To punctuate the statement, he popped the cork, then handed Crowley the entire bottle. 

“Got my own glass here,” he said, picking up the third bottle. 

It startled a genuine smile from Crowley. 

“Forgetting might just work.”

As the champagne started to work its sparkling magic, the nightingale breathed a sigh of relief and sang its favourite tune, a little number about blackberries.

* * *

It was one week after Hell had come knocking, and Crowley had almost forgotten to feel any sense of danger at all. He was still awaiting Aziraphale, and therefore still worried, so worried some nights he found himself paralyzed on _Ophelia’s_ bench seat, but, during the long summer days, the gentle rolling greens of the West Midlands (before they gave way to the urbanising mass of Birmingham, at least) were like a soothing balm on anything not centred around Aziraphale (his Aziraphale worries were too potent, too sharp for anything to really aid them, even the generously shared and donated contents of Geoff’s whisky cabinet).

The boat looked brand new from the outside, and Crowley was particularly proud of his handiwork in rendering the design on the side. He was no John Everett Millais, but he thought he had done a fair likeness of his painting. He had then started on making the dated interior a little more livable. The thought of Aziraphale had led to him first replacing the cushion cover on the bench with a tartan one that truly defied all concepts of good taste. 

As summer idled by, he eked out a comfortable existence in the Midlands. Every couple of days, Geoff would appear with two bottles of wine or a bottle of whisky and they would watch the sun set whilst chatting about nothing in particular, or indeed nothing at all. Catriona would sometimes use her lunch breaks at the local school to join him with extra ham and piccalilli sandwiches. And on the days when he politely turned down dinner invitations, Fatima would still pop by with a Tupperware filled with homemade tarka daal or bhuna gosht. He didn’t need to eat of course, and he never usually did so without Aziraphale, at least, not often, but he hadn’t the heart to turn them down. 

So he ate the food.

And he waited.

* * *

Aziraphale finally arrived five weeks later, just as summer had suffocated everything under its humidity. 

Crowley had been gently chastising Delilah at the table, staying indoors to avoid the worst of the mid-afternoon heat.

(After all they’d been through together, he struggled to put the fear of himself into the plant. Had Delilah actually made it to the flat to meet his other plants, the succulent would have known to find his behaviour concerning.)

The angel had slowly approached the boat, then all the tension in his frame had visibly melted away when he caught sight of _Ophelia_ and her owner. 

Aziraphale had never been one for sleep, but he had dropped his battered suitcase on the floor and collapsed into the small bed.

“We can talk later, my dear,” he had said, in lieu of a more traditional greeting.

He slept for three days. 

On the second day, Geoff came round, a bottle of Aldi whisky in hand (he assured Crowley it was ‘surprisingly decent’).

He glanced at Crowley on the bank, taking in the more relaxed way he lolled about on the grass and smiled. 

“You heard from him then?”

The demon just nodded his head towards the boat and the man poked his head in the door and smiled. 

“Bless him. Has he been here long?”

“He arrived yesterday.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Just tired, I think,” Crowley said. (He wasn’t sure the real explanation of being pursued by the forces of heaven and hell would go down well.) “He wanted a nap, but I’ll just see when he wakes up. Let him get his rest and all.”

Geoff had nodded and fetched the lone two wine glasses Crowley had acquired for the boat thus far. They were unconventional vessels for whisky, but as long as he could drink out of it, Crowley did not care overmuch. 

Catriona arrived before midday, with extra sandwiches. Crowley had stayed inside the boat today, as the air outside was unpleasantly muggy, and the heavy clouds threatened rain. 

“Dad said your partner had arrived.” She sat herself down on the bench seat, and upon spotting Aziraphale’s slumbering form, her expression turned concerned. “Has he slept right through?”

Crowley nodded, “I might try and wake him this afternoon. He normally doesn’t sleep much, so I think the move must have caught up with him.”

Catriona smiled in understanding. “Yes, there must have been a lot to sort at his shop. Closing a business can’t make moving any easier.”

Crowley hummed absently, still watching the sleeping angel. He wondered if Aziraphale had found someone to take over. Perhaps Anathema. How old would she be now? Crowley was quite shocked to find he had no idea. And he really should have corrected the three of them when they originally assumed that he and Aziraphale were involved like that, but it was a little too late for that now. All the twisting in his gut as he waited for news had clouded his judgement and so he selfishly let six millennia of longing manifest as something real, at least in the minds of these three strange humans that had imprinted on him here. 

Aziraphale woke that afternoon.

Crowley had not moved since Catriona had left and he sat at the table, continuously shuffling through a worn deck of cards, yet to actually deal himself a hand. He blinked up as Aziraphale stumbled towards him and blearily dropped himself onto the other side of the bench. With a click of his fingers, the kettle started to boil. One of the first things Crowley had bought for the boat was the wherewithal to make cocoa. 

“Oh a hot chocolate would be delightful,” Aziraphale smiled. “You wouldn’t have anything to eat would you?”

Crowley just pushed the foil packet of sandwiches towards him. 

“Sandwiches. Just the ticket. Thank you my dear.”

“Don’t thank me,” Crowley said, as he moved into the kitchenette. “Catriona made them.”

Aziraphale frowned down at his food, “Who’s Catriona?”

“Geoff’s daughter. Geoff is the man I bought the boat from.”

The angel sighed heavily. 

“Well since you bring it up, there is something I’ve been wanting to ask,” he trailed off, then gestured exasperatedly around himself at the boat. “What in the - and I cannot stress this enough - ever-loving hell possessed you to disappear off and buy a narrowboat?”

Crowley paused as he was about to pour the water into a mug and set down the kettle. 

“Just that,” he said. “Hell came knocking.”

Aziraphale seemed satisfied with that for a moment, but then his expression clouded over once more. Then, with a question on his tongue, he turned to Crowley again.

He shrugged. Then he gestured to Delilah, where it sat at Aziraphale’s elbow. 

“I was on my way back to drop Delilah off at the flat and a neighbour told me Hastur was there to see me. I left right away, came to see you, but I could see that.. that _prick_ Sandalphon was there, so I went to Flo’s to think. I couldn’t stay in London, and I knew you couldn’t either, so I left clues for you to find me and then I came here.”

Aziraphale continued to stare at him incredulously. It was the expression of someone who only had more questions. 

(One was: you named your plant Delilah? Most of the others were along the lines of: but a narrowboat? A narrowboat? A _narrowboat_?)

“That still doesn’t explain the narrowboat Crowley.”

(Thank goodness he was eloquent. Anyone else would have likely just sputtered, ‘Narrowboat?!’)

“Rosie and Jim was on in Flo’s. And would you look for us on a narrowboat?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, then closed it again.

After a moment, he conceded, “No. I would not think to look for us on a narrowboat. I wouldn’t think anyone would go on the run in something that can only travel at four miles an hour.”

Crowley just went back to finishing the cup of cocoa. Aziraphale sighed and started to eat his sandwich, but he smiled as Crowley placed the mug at his elbow. As he ate, he gave a cursory glance at his surroundings. 

“I do like what you’ve done with the place,” he said, “It’s very homely.”

He just hummed in response, hiding his smile as he refilled his spray bottle for his plants. He hadn’t started on _Ophelia’s_ interior with anything particular in mind, but about two weeks in, he’d started to realise that it was starting to look too much like Aziraphale’s shop, with the dark wood lining the walls, tartan accents here and there and a positively hideous crochet blanket thrown over the bed. So he’d gone and stripped the varnish from the walls and instead painted them a bright white. There was a print of the Mona Lisa in an ugly frame on the wall of the bathroom and a set of three cacti on the kitchen windowsill. Though he’d never much thought of his flat as a home, per se, these little touches at least made the boat feel more like his. 

He left Aziraphale finishing his sandwich and set about watering the Three Amigos and Delilah. Once they were both done, he came and sat down opposite the angel, whose hands were curled around the mug as he slowly sipped his hot chocolate. (The mug had been a donation from Fatima. It was red and simply said ‘No.’)

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” he asked carefully. 

Aziraphale shook his head, “Not right now, maybe later, over some wine.”

Crowley just nodded and went back to shuffling the cards. 

* * *

They didn’t talk that evening. Catriona and Fatima had all but bodily hauled them to dinner. Aziraphale hadn’t needed much persuasion after the promise of home-cooked food. So they had gone and sat in their little flat around the dining table and Crowley had just been content to watch fondly as the girls bonded with Aziraphale over a mutual love of literature. 

Aziraphale immediately fell into place in this strange little tableau, even though he’d never had quite the same predilection for spending time with humans individually, he’d always kept his distance. But here, up close, he was radiant. 

Catriona and Fatima had apparently met as they both wrote their dissertations on queer-coding in nineteenth-century literature. This had delighted Aziraphale, who had proudly started to talk about all his Oscar Wilde first editions. 

Fatima’s eyes lit up at that. 

“First editions? Plural?”

Aziraphale grinned, “Oh yes.”

(As Crowley had slept through most of the nineteenth century, there were a lot of things he had missed. Wilde was one of them. He’d done his best to catch up, but the twentieth century had been _busy._

Sometime in the fifties, Aziraphale had finally taken him to the Tate. 

“I know you have a fondness for Hamlet,” he had said, as he led him into one of the galleries. 

Crowley had started to grumble that _really_ , really he preferred the comedies, but he had stopped when he had seen the painting. 

Humans. They could be so remarkable. 

It was so beautiful and so tragic and so beyond words that he just stared at it in silent awe. 

“How have I not seen this before?” he breathed. 

Aziraphale had just smiled at him sadly. “My dear, you were asleep.”

Crowley just kept staring. 

“And then there was a war on. And another war. Then, before you know it, a century has gone by.”

They went back to the Tate often after that. Each time, Crowley would insist they come back to _Ophelia._ Each time, Aziraphale would just give a fond smile and stand beside him.)

The sun had long set by the time they stumbled back to the boat, pleasantly hazy with wine. Crowley flopped immediately onto the bed and Aziraphale lingered in the kitchenette. 

“I’ve had quite enough sleep for now, dear boy,” he said. 

He opened his suitcase and even from the bed, Crowley could see it was filled with books. There was a shelf he’d set aside, marked by a worn set of globe bookends. He let himself fall asleep to the sound of books being methodically stacked.

* * *

Crowley awoke to the soft pitter-patter of rain on the metal roof. He sat up, scrubbing at his eyes and went to reach for his sunglasses. He paused to stare out of the fogged-up windows, eyes tracing a rivulet of water as it cut through the misty outline of the trees outside. Aziraphale had curled himself up, uncharacteristically small on the bench seat and with his nose buried in a book of poetry. 

“Drink?” the demon asked as he passed by. 

Aziraphale blinked up at him, then shook his head, as if dispersing a fog. 

“Tea, if you have it?” he said. 

Crowley frowned as he checked the cupboard. He only had coffee or cocoa. 

“I don’t have tea.”

“Cocoa will do.”

“I don’t mind, I can go out and get…”

He trailed off as Aziraphale pointedly turned his gaze outside. 

“Cocoa it is then.”

The kettle bubbled to life with a click of his fingers and Crowley lifted out his two mugs. Once he slid onto the seat with two steaming mugs, Aziraphile placed his book aside and glanced down at something on the table. Crowley followed his gaze to a small diecast model Bentley. 

“Your car had already been towed when I got to the Ritz, so I got you this,” he said, and he rolled the little toy over. 

Crowley picked up, lifting it to his face to study it closely. If he squinted, he could almost imagine his bullet stickers on the window. 

“I also made the impound lot forget your car was there, so it’ll be safe until we get back to London.”

Crowley frowned, “If we get back.”

Aziraphale’s expression dropped and his mouth set into a little grim line. 

“Hmmm.”

The rain showed no signs of letting up and so the morning passed by quietly. Aziraphale went back to his book and Crowley started to shuffle through the pack of cards idly. After a little while, the angel sighed, put his book aside and gestured to the cards, wordlessly. 

Crowley dealt them each a hand for ten-card rummy. After Aziraphale won the first game, he started to use his powers to cheat, just a little, until the angel caught on and also started to miracle himself better cards. 

It escalated, as they were wont to do, until Aziraphale won with a hand of ten twos and they agreed to play Shithead instead. 

(They both just resorted to more subtle methods of cheating via occult and ethereal interference.)

* * *

A week passed. 

The days slipped by, washed away by the rain that seemed to soak into the very bones of the earth and clung to the frayed edges of Crowley’s soul. 

He tried two times more to ask about what had happened with the angels in London, both times Aziraphale had just frowned and changed the subject.

(Though Crowley had found out that Anathema had indeed taken over the shop whilst they were away, and _did you know she’s in her thirties now dear? No, she’s not still with Newt, apparently if you take away the immediacy if Armageddon, you have much less patience for men who can only just about boil an egg_ . _I did tell you about that._ )

So he had let it go, content for Aziraphale to settle into the little routine he had set for himself. 

They talked about everything and nothing, well nothing important at least. They played cards. At one point Aziraphale almost convinced him to read a book, but he was saved by an extremely bedraggled Geoff, a tupperware of matar paneer and a few bottles of Cariñena to ‘warm the cockles.’

That evening, he had broached a topic he’d been avoiding since Aziraphale had arrived. Moving on. It seemed foolish to leave London, only to stay in one place, what with Hell probably looking for him and all. They could probably find him easily, despite his best efforts, so the fact that they hadn’t caught up with him yet at least meant he was a low priority. Hopefully. That could change. 

Geoff had just blinked. 

“Well, we’ll be sorry to see you go son,” he said. He made them promise to stay in touch, then signalled for Crowley to stand from the bench seat.

Oh.

He’d didn’t realise there was storage there.

It was full of maps, which Geoff rifled through a moment until he found whatever he was looking for. 

“Might I recommend the Llangollen Canal? Lovely part of the world, there’s this great aqueduct I cannot pronounce the name of.”

“Pontcysyllte,” said Aziraphale from the kitchen. He rejoined them, having opened the next bottle of wine. They both blinked up at him.

“Sounds about right. I normally just go with ‘pont’ followed by some vague syllables,” he stood from the floor, huffing out a puff of air and waving away Crowley’s hand. 

“Wales sounds good,” said Aziraphale. He looked to Crowley, “If that is where you want to go my dear?”

Crowley blinked, swallowed heavily.

“It’s alright by me.”

They all settled back down onto the bench seat. Crowley poured the wine.

“When would you be thinking about setting off then?”

Crowley looked down to the end of the boat, outside, to where the steering was located, though it was invisible through the sheets of teeming rain. 

Aziraphale watched him carefully, then smiled at Geoff.

“I think we might wait until the rain dies down.”

Geoff chuckled wryly.

“You might be waiting a while then.”

* * *

The rain cleared up on the Friday afternoon and despite the boggy ground, the weather forecast promised a lazy weekend spent getting lightly sunburnt in pub gardens. 

They left the village with a promise to visit soon, and Geoff, Catriona and Fatima came to wave them off from the canalside. Crowley was steering the boat with a poorly concealed smile at the sight of the three of them enthusiastically waving off _Ophelia_ as she pulled ever so slowly away. 

For lunch, they stopped off in Birmingham, at a little sushi place at the edge of the Gay Village. 

It was an intimate affair, the interior a clean mix of black and white, with a few seats clustered around an open kitchen. By some miracle (Aziraphale, of course), there were two seats free.

Crowley started to eat his salmon nigiri, but paused as he heard something akin to a moan emanating from the angel. He glanced aside, to see Aziraphale, his eyes rolled back in pleasure, as he ate his octopus sashimi. Crowley swallowed thickly. 

Aziraphale smiled at him, “Oh, my dear you _must_ try some.”

He lifted a piece with his chopsticks and held them to Crowley’s face. 

Frozen, his eyes flicked from Aziraphale’s open face, to the innocent looking piece of seafood and back. The angel seemed either undaunted, or completely unaware of the intimate nature of the gesture. Crowley swallowed again, then slowly, carefully, allowed Aziraphale to place it in his mouth. He was sure Aziraphale had been correct when he claimed it delicious, but Crowley had no idea, his mouth strangely dry as he chewed and his thoughts practically screaming. 

He nodded, making a vague approving hum, to which the angel made a satisfied little sound and went back to his food. 

Crowley finished his in a daze. 

As they wandered back to the narrowboat in an amiable silence, their arms bumping every so often, Crowley found himself questioning his choices. He had been able to manage his… his feelings for the angel in London, when he could retreat to his sparse flat and breathe until the twisting sensation in his chest eased, when he could set aside six thousand years of _wanting_ as he talked to his plants, coercing them into brilliance. 

But now, now, they were living in _Ophelia_ ’s cramped interior and some days he’d look up from the table and Aziraphale would be right there, busying about the kitchen as he prepared himself a hot drink, gently gilded by the light from the window and Crowley couldn’t breathe. And they were headed for Wales, alone. 

Just as they reached the canal path, he found Aziraphale was watching him with mild concern and he attempted a reassuring smile. 

“Everything alright?”

“Yup,” Crowley said, popping the ‘p’ with feigned nonchalance. 

“You look troubled.”

“I just. Missing London,” he lied with a shrug. 

Aziraphale frowned, “Well, hopefully we’ll be able to go back soon.”

Crowley didn’t reply. He handed Aziraphale the keys to the cabin and clambered onto the stern to undo the rear mooring and start the engine. 

_Ophelia_ might have been considerably slower than the Bentley, but piloting her proved to be similarly therapeutic. Like with driving, he had only bothered to learn the basics of steering, relying on his powers for the rest, so his mind could not find time to be fully engaged with stupid angels and their endearing love of sushi and their fussy mannerisms that covered up something rather more terrifying and impressive underneath, something bright and unyeilding, like diamond. Instead it was just Crowley, steering the black- and green-painted vessel through the placid canal, that wove like a ribbon between the towering buildings of the city. 

By the time they passed out of Birmingham, Crowley felt drained by the steady use of his energy, and so they stopped for the night. He re-entered the cabin, waving off Aziraphale’s offer of wine to slump inelegantly onto the bed, still fully dressed. 

“Are you okay in there, dear?”

“Nghnnn.”

It did not take long for him to succumb to the blissful abyss of sleep. 

* * *

Crowley was woken relatively early by the soft light of morning as it filtered through the crack in the blinds. He stretched as he sat up, letting out a pleased little hiss. He could not hear the angel moving around in the living area, and he wondered if he might have fallen asleep. 

He stepped through into the kitchenette and blinked around. There was no-one there.

There was, however, a note on the table, written in Aziraphale’s careful handwriting. 

‘ _Just popped back into Wolverhampton,_ _gone to fetch some breakfast, should be back soon.’_

Crowley smiled and went to fix himself a cup of coffee, leaving a mug filled with some cocoa powder beside the kettle. 

Around half an hour later, when Aziraphale returned, he found Crowley sat on the bench seat, poring over a regional map of the canal network. He set one of the still-warm croissants on a plate at Crowley’s elbow, and went to make himself a cup of cocoa, smiling when he found he only needed to add hot water to his cup. 

“Remind me the way we’re going again, my dear?” said Aziraphale, leaning over his shoulder. The croissant was still there, ignored. Aziraphale gave his friend an askance glance and took a bite. (There were still three in the bag. The fact he’d bought eight was completely irrelevant.)

Crowley tapped the map, “We’re just heading up the Shropshire Union Canal at the moment, we need to go here, where it joins with the Llangollen Canal.”

As he talked, his fingers traced the thin line of blue up to a point named Hurleston, then descended into Wales. 

The angel made a little huffing noise in the back of his throat. 

“What?”

“You don’t pronounce the double ‘l’ like that,” he chastised, “It’s its own letter. It’s sort of between a ‘kuh’ sound, like the ‘ch’ in ‘loch,’ and a ‘cluh’ sound.”

Crowley blinked a moment. 

“Since when have you been so knowledgeable about Welsh?”

“Oh you know, popped in for a few miracles and such like over the years. Picked a few bits up. I’m surprised you didn’t.”

“Not really. Feel a bit bad about that, considering.” 

“And so you should,” Aziraphale said primly. “We’ve lived on the British Isles for almost two-thousand years now.”

Crowley chuckled drily, “That’s not it.”

The angel just raised his eyebrows, unamused. 

“You start one little rumour to make trouble for a disrespectful landowner, and suddenly, the whole country fucks sheep!” he muttered, turning his gaze back down to the map. 

“That was you?”

The scandal in Aziraphale’s tone prompted him to look up sharply. 

“I didn’t mean to!”

Aziraphale continued to stare at him a moment, before a smile broke through and he laughed. 

Crowley found himself helpless to joining in. He pushed the map aside and reached for the now empty plate, a move that only seemed to make Aziraphale laugh harder. 

“You’re a bastard, angel,” he said, though it was laden with far too much affection. 

(In fact, were he to be overheard by someone that did not speak English, they would have been led to believe it meant ‘I love you.’ They would have been quite surprised were they to be offered a translation.)

“Apologies, my dear.”

Aziraphale fetched another croissant from the counter and set it on the plate. He was smiling at Crowley rather fondly now, and he didn’t know quite what to do with that, so he busied himself with his coffee and the flaky pastry.

* * *

Sometime during the afternoon, Aziraphale ventured out to join Crowley on the stern. He’d been reading all day, venturing out only to help with passing through the two locks on this stretch of canal. Crowley was reclined against the railing as he steered, all long lines in his carefully languid pose. 

“Alright, angel?”

“Hmm? Oh yes, I’m fine, just thought I might pop outside for a while.”

Crowley smiled lazily, though he snapped his fingers to turn down the volume on the CD player a little. 

(It was a cheap little thing, that had previously only played Geoff’s well-loved _The Who_ CD, but was now playing a mixtape the man had proudly made with Fatima’s help. He had chosen well, Crowley had thought, when he first looked at the track list. Mercifully, Aziraphale did not have the knowledge to realise Freddie Mercury had nothing to do with _Mr. Blue Sky._ )

“This is rather pleasant isn’t it?” the angel commented. He was holding onto the railing, facing back the way they had come, but with his face tilted up towards the sun. 

There was a slight flush to his face, dusted like the gentle pink of a rose petal across his nose and cheekbones. Crowley couldn’t tell if it was from the sun or something else. 

He tried not to contemplate it too much.

He failed.

Aziraphale was right there, quiet and content, transformed by the sunlight into something truly ethereal.

Crowley had never felt more human.

This close, he could bridge the space they danced around. Just a small reach, a small reach and their fingers could connect.

His hand made an aborted twitch and he shoved it forcefully into his pocket.

“This is sort of like being in your car, isn’t it?” he said, tilting his head to Crowley. “Except slower, and outdoors and on the water.”

Crowley grinned in amusement, “So not really like driving a car at all then?”

“I- Ah- Oh shut up.”

Crowley decided to humour him, “You’re right, it’s similar in all the ways that matter.”

Aziraphale nodded, “Yes, with the popular music and you. You driving and looking all…”

He trailed off, looking back to his hands that were gripping the railings tightly.

Crowley quirked an eyebrow, “Me looking all what?”

There was an awkward little cough, before Aziraphale muttered, “Looking all cool.”

The demon smiled then, and he was incredibly glad the angel was looking away, it was the smile that appeared whenever Aziraphale made a joke about temptation, the smile that gave away everything. 

“You think I look cool?” His tone was somewhere between teasing and wonderment.

“Of course you look cool, with the sunglasses, and the dark clothes, and the lounging, and the sauntering.”

“I do not saunter,” he scoffed.

“Oh you absolutely do.”

“I absolutely do not!”

Aziraphale held up a finger, then used the small space between the railing and the door to the cabin to take three strides, hands in pockets and hips swaying exaggeratedly. 

It startled a laugh out of Crowley.

“I have never walked like that.”

“You have always walked like that. And Hell seemed to agree with me.”

Crowley groaned, letting his head fall back. He could get over the walk thing, (really, honestly) but Aziraphale was grinning with this evil little smirk and he really needed to not crash the boat into the side of the canal. 

Satisfied that he had won, Aziraphale returned to his spot on the railing and started to hum absentmindedly along with the music, a little out-of-tune and off-rhythm, but pretty good considering he had no idea who Fleetwood Mac were.

The narrowboat puttered slowly on. 

* * *

The following day, they made good progress, but on their third day out of Birmingham, the clouds had started to gather in a thick blanket throughout the morning, and the rain had started sometime around noon. It was the kind of fine, pervasive rain that sunk into your hair and your clothes, leaving a lingering feeling of dampness that penetrated you down to the soul. The kind of rain that seemed resistant even to the most demonic of miracles that willed one to stay dry. 

As they reached Nantwich, it was early afternoon and Crowley was soaked to the bone. He tied up _Ophelia_ , and disembarked, skittish and grumpy like a freshly bathed cat. Aziraphale held his umbrella overhead, but the act of kindness was dampened somewhat as he bit down on a smirk. Crowley slouched along beside him, wet tendrils of his hair flopping down his forehead and into his eyes. 

They hadn’t the patience to enjoy the town’s medieval architecture in the inclement weather (and frankly it just reminded Crowley of the 14th Century, and that just made him hate the day even more), and so, after a warming lunch of soup and toasties in a small cafe, they went off in search of something waterproof. 

Which was how Crowley had ended up in a poncho. A _poncho._

He had categorically refused to wear a cagoule, especially since the only ones left in the shop seemed to be banana-yellow and so Aziraphale had held out the only other offering, with a smile that was far too amused for someone who had the good fortune to be inside all day. 

Much to Crowley’s horror, Aziraphale had also picked up a disposable camera along the way, a fact he learnt as he heard a little click once they had set off once more. 

His eyes snapped up in horror, to see Aziraphale, lingering just out of the rain in the doorway, poised with a tell-tale yellow and black box. 

“For posterity,” he said, then disappeared back inside the cabin. 

Crowley growled, between the limp, wet hair, the terrible clear plastic rain poncho (complete with bright red polka dots) and the water-spotted sunglasses, he looked absolutely ridiculous. 

And now, there was _evidence._

* * *

The Llangollen Canal climbed upwards, meaning Aziraphale was forced out into the deluge to help with the many locks along the way. Unfortunately for Crowley, he seemed to be in much better humour about it, as he grumbled around a smile, the rain sticking his curls to his forehead. He was more endearing than he had any right to be. 

By the time they neared Ellesmere, a couple of days later, the weather was showing some signs of improving, as the clouds lightened, cautious rays of sun peeking through. Crowley was sure he would never feel fully dry again. He was also ready to set the thrice-damned poncho alight, even if it meant upsetting the little voice in his head, the one that sounded a lot like Adam, and reminded him how bad that would be for the environment. 

On their third day along the canal, they crossed over into Wales, and the rain stopped for long enough to draw Aziraphale out to the stern. With some small measure of satisfaction, Aziraphale almost tripped over the CD player in the doorway, where Crowley had put it to protect it from getting wet. 

Aziraphale miracled the water from the rail, to reassume his position, leaning against it, gently moving aside Crowley’s abandoned poncho with his toe. On the banks, trees arched their branches overhead, creating a natural, leafy tunnel that enclosed them, safe from the world as they drifted through the placid waters. Just beyond, Crowley could see the rolling green fields, spotted with cotton puffs of grazing sheep. He could hear birds over the gentle whirring of _Ophelia’_ s engine and the softly playing _Waterloo Sunset_ (arranged by one Mr F. Mercury). It felt worlds away from the constant cacophony of London. 

Aziraphale inhaled deeply, taking on the clean air, as if a similar thought had occurred to him. 

At some point, he disappeared back into the cabin, returning with his disposable camera, and he captured a careful shot of the fields through a gap in the trees. 

He turned to smile at Crowley a moment, who found himself smiling back, before the tell tale click of the shutter. Crowley frowned as the angel grinned. 

“Sorry my dear, but the light was catching you just-so.”

“My hair is a mess,” he grumbled, running a hand through it self-consciously. It was still matted and limp from the rain and he hadn’t bothered to fix it yet because there was no-one but Aziraphale to see. Now it had been recorded for _posterity_ again. 

(Crowley knew posterity wasn’t a real person, but he felt better about the photos if he personified it. He had also decided posterity was a complete and utter bastard.)

That evening, they stopped a little earlier, as the light was a little dim and Chirk’s aqueduct was something best saved for better lighting. 

For dinner, Crowley tried his hand at _spaghetti alla puttanesca_ , which was somewhat more difficult with only the boat’s small hotplate available. Still, Aziraphale made a series of approving noises that warmed him to his core and made him reach for his wine more frequently than usual.

They played ten-card rummy again, having found the game to be much more enjoyable when they competed with one another in inventing ever more flagrant ways to cheat. It was a competition fueled by copious amounts of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo. 

Sometime after midnight, Crowley found himself struggling to read the cards and dropping more than he kept when he shuffled, so they collected them together in a messy heap on the table. He had migrated to a cushion on the floor, whilst Aziraphale slumped over his wine glass, giggling at nothing in particular. 

Aziraphale decided it was the appropriate moment to teach Crowley how to say ‘Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch,’ despite being too drunk to get through the word himself. He kept getting stuck on the quadruple ‘l’ whilst Crowley was at the point where he was hissing various consonants. 

In the end, they were both just starting with ‘llanfair’, then descending into nonsense babbling, before finishing with a proud flourish on ‘gogogoch!’ They even made a little song, to the tune of _We Are The Champions_ , thanks to Crowley’s influence, despite it not really fitting at all. Also, they were so out of tune, to an outside observer, it bore not even a passing resemblance to anything ever recorded by Queen. 

At some point during all this, Crowley must have fallen asleep, for he awoke on the floor, covered in a blanket he had not had earlier, and with an atrocious headache. He’d been too drunk to even sober up. He hadn’t done that since, well, the end of the Second World War. Another thing he’d had nothing to do with, and another commendation from Below. 

Aziraphale, it seemed, had also fallen asleep, as he was curled awkwardly on the bench seat and blinking down at him blearily. He sat up, wincing. 

“I dare say, I feel rather delicate right about now.”

Crowley started to nod in agreement, but stopped as that just made the pain sloshing about his head worsen. 

The angel made them each a strong cup of coffee, after which, Crowley was able to find the mental capacity to will away his hangover. His body still felt as if he’d been wrung through a mangle, but at least now he felt like he could pilot the boat without accidentally steering it into the bank. Aziraphale cringed at the sunlight shining more strongly through the patchy clouds and chose to stay inside.

With no-one about, Crowley untied the fore and aft ropes with a snap of his fingers and set about getting the engines started. He leaned bonelessly against the railing, one hand in his pocket, the other on the tiller as he steered _Ophelia_ into the centre of the canal. 

There was a lone dog walker on the canal path, and they offered Crowley a friendly wave, their beagle barking excitedly. He offered a vague smile in return. The late morning sun was already making his skin feel too tight, so he was glad when they passed over the aqueduct and into the cool, dark tunnel. Aziraphale opted to stay indoors. (The aqueduct, he said, could wait until they were on their way back down the canal, and would Crowley also mind if he paid a quick visit to the castle?) 

As they were buying sandwiches and snacks from a local deli, the woman behind the counter made a passing comment about how unusually quiet the canal was for the time of year. 

“Normally, in early August there’s long waits on the locks,” she said, “It’s a little strange, given the good weather, but it hasn’t affected business any, so I shan’t complain. In fact, it’s much more pleasant walking the dog as he likes to bark at every boat.”

Aziraphale gave her a humouring smile as she showed him a picture of her little curly-haired Bichon Frise, but his eyes flicked suspiciously to Crowley, who was at that moment incredibly interested in the meat counter. 

As they walked back to the boat, Aziraphale kept giving him a Look. 

Then, as they reached _Ophelia,_ he sighed and shook his head with a fond smile.

“I can’t believe I used to get memos about frivolous miracles whilst you use your powers to keep cars off the roads and boats off canals.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him, sarcastically.

“Angel, you got memos about frivolous miracles because you used them to stack shelves in your bookshop and reheat you cocoa or tea when you forgot about it.”

Aziraphale let out a slow puff of air. 

“And anyway, Hell doesn’t have the same issues with frivolous miracles. They encourage it even.”

The angel huffed again. 

“Oh into the boat with you, fiend.”

Crowley grinned, waggling his eyebrows and stepped into the cabin. He left the bag of food on the counter for Aziraphale to deal with, then headed back to the stern, ready to cast off. 

It took about an hour and a half for them to reach the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct (which Crowley doubted he would ever be able to pronounce, especially not without hissing) and during that time, Aziraphale had once again come to join him on the stern. He was gently lit by the sun, smiling softly at nothing in particular, and humming along with the chirping crickets and _Ophelia_ ’s engine, adding something rather wonderful to the tinny sounds of _Bittersweet Symphony_ emanating from the CD player. 

The aqueduct was long and straight, an absolute marvel of human ingenuity, as it towered over the valley on its great stone pillars. There were quite a few visitors on the narrow canal path, carefully stepping around one another and trying not to look down over the railings. 

There was no railing on the canal side of the bridge and no ledge between the canal and the edge, like there had been at Chirk, just the canal and then the drop. Crowley glanced downwards and withheld a gulp. It was a long way to fall, with a quick and brutal discorporation waiting at the end of it. It was not the kind of fall that could be styled-out into a saunter. 

Aziraphale, who was stood to the left of the stern, and therefore closer to the edge, seemed blissfully unaware of the steep drop, and instead admired the myriad of greens splashed upon the rolling canvas of the hills. 

“It’s rather remarkable, isn’t it?” he said, voice soft with awe. “What humans can do?”

Crowley gave a tight smile of agreement, but stayed facing ahead, eyes fixed on the end of the bridge. 

* * *

After eating their lunch at the canal side, Aziraphale and Crowley carried on to Llangollen, arriving just in time for dinner. They ate at a lovely little pub down on the riverside, then returned to the boat for another evening of wine and card games. 

As Crowley shuffled the cards, Aziraphale poured the wine. 

“Where would you like to go next?” he asked. 

Crowley shrugged a shoulder, continuing to move the cards about in his hands. 

“I don’t mind really. We could head north?” he suggested. 

The angel smiled, setting the turquoise wine glasses down on the table. 

“Sounds lovely. Liverpool and Manchester are fairly close by, aren’t they?”

Crowley gave a short nod, but kept quiet, taking a sip of his wine. He dealt out the cards for a hand of Shithead, but he found himself quickly losing, as his heart was not in it. Aziraphale was looking at him in concern, so Crowley made a little more effort to cheat. 

It was only as Aziraphale had mentioned moving on, that he had been brought back to reality with a shuddering jolt. Somehow, he had all but forgotten why he was here with Aziraphale, on a narrowboat in a little town in the Welsh countryside. He had barely thought about Hell at all. About what was either waiting for him in Mayfair, or closing in on his heels as he sat there, idly playing cards. It was as if _Ophelia_ had cast a spell over them, trapping them in a strange little domestic fantasy of an almost something. 

But he and Aziraphale did not go on little jaunts to the countryside. Before, when there had been sides to consider, they would often end up in the same place, in some godforsaken little corner of the world, where they would find each other, as if drawn together by some ineffable force. And now, in the afterwards, now the world had not ended, they had remained firmly in London, where the familiarity of the busy streets and the cosy bookshop saved Crowley from doing anything as stupid as finally bridging that gap. 

Crowley lost the game of cards, and he used the darkening sky as an excuse to turn in early for the night. 

He did not sleep a wink.

* * *

Crowley lay lounging on the grassy bank, eyes closed beneath his sunglasses. It was the afternoon. He had turned down the offer to join Aziraphale on his visit to Chirk Castle, and instead he had tried to take a nap after a long morning navigating the boat back from Llangollen and over the terrifying aqueduct again. 

Once he had realised sleep was going to evade him yet again, he ventured outside, deciding he would soak up some sun instead. 

A fly buzzed by his ear, and he half-heartedly swatted it away. It persisted, but he kept his eyes shut, determined not to let a bug ruin his relaxation.

A shadow fell over him, and he let out an irritated huff as it blocked out the warmth. He lazily cracked open one eye, expecting Aziraphale, back from his walk. 

It was not. 

“Crrrrowzley.”

He sat up sharply. 

“Beelzebub,” he fought off the slight tremor in his voice. “How hellish to see you.”

“You hazzz been most difficult to find Crowzley,” 

He chuckled nervously, “Well that definitely wasn’t my aim. Just fancied a little holiday, you know. Boat. Quiet…” he gestured vaguely at the hills in the distance. “Lovely Welsh countryside.”

Beelzebub just stared at him flatly. 

Then they sighed and tilted their head as they stared down at Crowley. 

“We have been in talkzzz with the Other Side.”

Crowley blinked. 

_What_?

“Talks?” he echoed. 

Demons, on the whole, were far too literal for their own good, but Crowley could have sworn in that moment, Beezelebub was embodying something akin to sarcasm, as they rolled their eyes to the sky. 

“We hazzz chozzzen to leave you alone. On Earth. Azzz long azzz you keep up the good work. Well the Bad work.”

“I thought that is what we were already doing.”

“That wazzz a temporary meazzzure, whilzzzt we made more permanent arrangementzzz. The Other Side likezzz a lot of paperwork.”

“Is that all there is to it? Keep up the good work and you’ll let me get on with it?”

“Yezzz. We thought you already knew.”

“Yes, I did hear Hastur popped by. Missed him, I’m afraid.”

Beelzebub frowned, actually frowned. Crowley was not used to them expressing anything facially. 

“No, not Hazzztur, the angel. Azzziraphale.”

Something sank inside of Crowley. 

“What about him?” he asked, failing to keep the edge from his tone. 

“The Other Side have been in contact. We thought he would already have told you. Though they’re still dezzziding what to do with him.”

“Nope,” he said, and he miraculously managed to keep his voice steady. Inside, he was in turmoil. “Haven’t seen him lately.”

Beelzebub gave him an indiscernible look, then they disappeared, leaving behind the faint whiff of sulphur. 

Crowley stood up, glanced around, then set off at pace along a footpath across the field. 

Aziraphale knew. 

Aziraphale had kept this from him.

That first week, he had avoided talk of Heaven’s visit, and Crowley, great fool that he was, had given him his space. 

But that still didn’t explain why. Why had he lied? That was not what they did to one another. If there was one person Crowley could trust to be unflinchingly honest, it was Aziraphale. He kicked at an unfortunate bush, knocking some leaves loose. 

And Heaven, it seemed, was less merciful than Hell. It was something Crowley already knew, but it was a knowledge that lingered uncomfortably in the back of his mind ( _He hadn’t even got a trial. He had only asked questions._ ) but now it rose to the fore and made him _angry_. Hell had agreed to leave Crowley alone, permanently, and meanwhile the angels didn’t even deign to give Aziraphale a decision.

He kept walking. He walked and he walked, until the hot molten anger that pooled in his stomach had crystallised and sharpened into something that tugged uncomfortably at his edges. He did not name it. It was the emotion that rose up when he used to think of Heaven, one he had long since reconciled. Questions. That was all it took. 

By the time he returned to _Ophelia_ it was late, the sky already starting to darken and take on brilliant hues of scarlet. 

Aziraphale was sat in the boat, stroking the air above one of Delilah’s spiny leaves, a book lying forgotten at his elbow. He stood up immediately as Crowley entered, the worry on his face fading into something affectionate. 

“My dear, where on Earth have you been?”

“Beelzebub just called,” Crowley said carefully, stretching nonchalantly onto the bench seat and picking up the deck of cards. 

The lightness dropped from the angel’s face.

In a strangled tone, he said, “They did?”

“Oh, hmm, yes, just popped out of the ground to tell me everything is fine, all sorted out, and as long as I keep doing my good, but not Good work, they’ll leave me completely alone. No memos needed. No more infernal interference.”

“Did they indeed? Well that is most fortunate.”

“What is curious,” Crowley looked up from shuffling the cards, setting them aside. “What is curious,” he repeated, icily, “Is that they were under the impression you already knew.”

The angel remained silent, but he still met Crowley’s gaze.

“Why didn’t you tell me angel?” he said softly. 

Aziraphale’s face crumpled and he collapsed onto the bench seat as if someone had cut all his strings. 

“I was scared,” he said, voice full of a timidity that was foreign to Crowley. He hated it. Hated Heaven, hated God, hated everything that made Aziraphale so not-himself in that moment. “I still am. I didn’t want to worry you. _They think I should fall Crowley,”_ This last part he said as a whisper, as if saying it too loud would make it real, as if the words themselves had the power to send him into the burning pits of sulphur. 

Crowley ignored his every instinct of self-preservation, and fiercely grasped Aziraphale’s hand, where it lay on the table. 

“Who does?”

He already had an inkling. He could see their faces, sneers turning to shock as he laughed at them through the flames. 

“Gabriel. Sandalphon. A number of others. There’s no consensus. They’re taking it to the very top.”

Crowley grasped his hand tighter. 

“Angel, you should have just told me.”

Aziraphale sighed.

“I wanted to. I really did. But Crowley when you fell, you only asked questions. We went against the divine plan. _An angel_ went against the divine plan. That’s a lot worse.”

Crowley tried an awkward smile. It felt too tight and too sharp upon his face. “Well, we didn’t do all that much, going against the divine plan. We’re not exactly competent.”

To both Crowley’s surprise and relief, that startled a wet laugh out of Aziraphale. 

“We’ll figure this out,” he added, sincerely. 

Aziraphale gave him a vague smile, before patting his hand and standing up. 

“I think I might try and get some rest.”

He disappeared into the bedroom and Crowley stayed, staring unseeingly at Delilah until the sky started to brighten once more. 

* * *

At some point during the early hours, Crowley had moved to make a coffee, so that when Aziraphale stumbled bleary eyed into the living space, he found him in almost the exact same state as he had left him in the night before, except now with a half-drunk cup of cold coffee in front of him. 

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, which brought Crowley’s drink back up to a palatable temperature and had the added benefit of drawing his attention back to the land of the living. 

Crowley blinked, slowly, then managed a smile before taking a sip. 

“Thanks.”

A few moments later, Aziraphale sat down beside him with a fresh cup of mocha. 

“So,” he said. “There is something else I’ve been wondering.”

“What?” Crowley asked, with a little trepidation. Aziraphale’s tone was light, conversational, but given yesterday’s revelations, he was… wary.

“It’s about the clues you left.”

Crowley let out a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding. 

“The Hamlet one at least made sense when I finally found the boat, but I still can’t quite make hide nor hair of the spaghetti.”

“Oh,” said Crowley. “Spaghetti junction.”

“I’m sorry. What?”

“Spaghetti junction, you know, the big complicated thing just outside of Birmingham.”

Aziraphale laughed, “I forget just how busy you were with all the roads in the seventies.”

Crowley smiled fondly. (He’d liked the seventies. Disco music and incorporating demonic ciphers into a number of the UKs motorways. Great times.) 

“And that made a lot more sense than what I thought it meant.”

“Which was?”

“I thought it was a reference to that _awful_ Venetian chef that worked for the Dowlings. Do you remember the time he cooked spaghetti bolognese?”

Crowley gave an appropriate shudder. It did not bear thinking about. Whoever decided to use _ketchup_ as the base for their tomato sauce deserved an eternity with Hastur.

“So, I thought of Venice, which with the boat seemed to imply canal. Seemed a little vague, but off I went.”

“You thought I just meant ‘canal’? That’s more than a little vague.”

Aziraphale huffed. “My dear, the last time you wanted me to run away with you, you suggested an entire star system as the destination.”

Crowley stayed quiet. He had never been one for carefully considered plans. 

“So I searched for you, which is rather difficult when the person you’re searching for does not want to be found. I think I covered almost the entire canal network in the South of England.”

He smiled softly, “And then I found you.”

“Don’t,” Crowley muttered under his breath.

“Don’t what?”

 _Don’t talk like that,_ Crowley wanted to say. _Don’t talk to me in that soft tone, saying soft things. I makes me want to do silly things, like hope, like reach out and take your hand, like tell you about the millennia._

Crowley did not say any of that.

Instead, he sighed heavily, took a long drink to finish his coffee and then changed the subject.

“So, when will you find out from Upstairs then?”

“I- I don’t know,” he said. “I’m supposed to contact the Metatron directly. They probably have an answer for me now. I’m not sure I want to hear it.”

“You can’t run away forever.”

Aziraphale snorted, but it was sharp, with no humour to it at all. 

“That’s a bit rich coming from you,” he said.

Crowley just ignored him and took his empty mug to the sink. 

He hadn’t slept in over two days. He was tired. Too tired to drive. He removed his jacket and collapsed onto the bed, deliberately rumpling the sheets the angel had left tidily to settle down into a fitful sleep.

* * *

He awoke sometime in the late afternoon, when the air was unpleasantly thick and muggy. Aziraphale was still sat at the table, nose in a book. 

He set his book aside and smiled cautiously at Crowley as he entered.

“Sorry for snapping at you before,” he said.

“S’fine,” Crowley mumbled.

He went into the kitchen and started to prepare a coffee and a hot chocolate. 

“I guess, just being here, I selfishly let myself forget about it all,” he carried on. “But that wasn’t fair to you. I’m sorry.”

“It really is fine,” Crowley said, setting the mugs down on the table. It wasn’t entirely fine, but it was at least in the same postcode. He could at least understand why Aziraphale hadn’t told him. Lor- _Someone_ knows, he had his own things to hide. 

Aziraphale seemed unplacated, so Crowley waited to let him voice whatever was on his mind. 

“I _wanted_ to tell you,” he began again, staring down into his drink. “I wanted to come straight out with it, but you’d taken off and I was _scared_ . And then I found you, and you had a boat and it was all homely and looking like _ours_ and a little part of me just wanted that for a while. You. And me. No distractions. No Heaven or Hell or great looming uncertainties. Just us.”

Crowley couldn’t breathe. His heart was beating a rapid staccato in his chest and his mind filled with Aziraphale’s words. _Just us. Ours._

“Oh my g- _fuck_ , Aziraphale,” Crowley gritted his teeth. “Don’t talk like that.”

It came out harsher than intended, but Aziraphale had sounded so genuine and there was the _bastard_ hope again. 

“Oh,” he said softly, shrinking in on himself, all sad and crumpled. 

And then, Crowley understood.

He could finally decipher it all, the looks, the smiles, _everything._ The lonely tapestry he had woven for them, with all the space in between, it unravelled in an instant.

He wanted to laugh, he wanted to cry, he wanted to go outside and scream it into the unending sky. 

They were such _idiots._

“Angel,” he said in his gentlest tone, the one full of reverence and dinners at the Ritz and ‘ _you gave it away?’_

Aziraphale breathed, as if steeling himself and slowly lifted his eyes to Crowley. He inhaled sharply at what he found. Crowley felt exposed, too open, he could feel the emotion on his face and he had no sunglasses to hide behind. 

Crowley carried on regardless. 

“Angel, when you talk like that it scares me, because it gives me _hope_.”

“You know,” he started. His fingers gently toying with the handle of his mug, but his eyes stayed fixed on Crowley. “Some days, some days it gets too much, when you smile at me just so, or laugh at something I said, or when you drink too much wine and go soft at the edges. Those days, it hurts to think you would never love me back.”

Crowley’s mind just referred him back to his previous thought concerning them both and their shared idiocy. 

He laughed wryly. 

“Aziraphale, I’ve been in love with you for millennia. _Millennia._ ”

Like the sun breaking through the clouds after a rainstorm, Aziraphale smiled, slow and brilliant. Crowley returned it. 

And then, because he couldn’t help it and because he felt like he could, Crowley leaned over the table and seized Aziraphale by his stupid tweed waistcoat and crushed their lips together. Aziraphale gasped into his mouth, then softened, returning his kiss with equal fervour. He was about to pull away, since the table was digging uncomfortably into his stomach. But Aziraphale’s fingers found their way into his hair and his teeth grazed Crowley’s lower lip and all thoughts other than _Aziraphale_ promptly exited his brain. 

* * *

It was a few days later, and _Ophelia_ was nearing the end of the Llangollen Canal, where it joined with the Shropshire Union. 

Crowley was in his place at the stern, Aziraphale by his side.

“Would you like to go to Liverpool then?” he asked. The CD player was playing _Here, There and Everywhere,_ with accompaniment by Freddie Mercury. 

Aziraphale looked thoughtful for a moment.

“We should probably go back to London,” he said. “I feel bad leaving dear Anathema with the shop for this long. And I should really get in touch with Upstairs. Get it over with.”

Crowley pressed his lips together, fingers tightening on the tiller.

“It’s probably for the best.”

Aziraphale was quiet a moment. He was looking down into the cabin fondly.

“We could still keep _Ophelia_ , of course, park her up in Little Venice perhaps.”

“I think I’d like that,” Crowley said with a smile. “Though I do miss the Bentley.”

The angel chuckled, “Of course you do. I think this old boat goes to slow for you.”

“Only sometimes, sometimes going slow is perfect.”

He glanced down at the space between them, where their hands were intertwined.

Yes, sometimes going slow was just fine. 

* * *

All told, it took about two weeks for them to get back to London. Crowley was surprised to find how easy it all was, really, almost as if nothing had changed at all. He spent his days outside, piloting the boat, listening to Geoff’s CD on repeat and tolerating Aziraphale’s amusement the one day it rained and forced him back into the blasted poncho. Aziraphale would spend his days inside reading, or outside with Crowley and they would talk and bicker about silly things, like whether a three year old could really paint like Rothko, or if cereal was actually a soup.

Sometimes, Aziraphale would go out for food alone and Crowley would sit at the table until he came back, shuffling the cards in his hands, trying to distract himself from the little voice that told him he wasn’t coming back, that he’d realise his mistake, that Heaven would come and snatch him away. 

Crowley wondered if that doubting voice, that could derail anything good with a _yes, but,_ he wondered if it was his punishment for asking questions; something that dropped a question mark after everything he thought was certain. 

But Aziraphale would always come back, and he would pat Crowley’s arm before the cards started smoking, and then he would just plate up whatever food he had bought. He never said anything; he never needed to, he would just smile and drop a kiss onto Crowley’s temple and that was enough. 

In the evenings, they would drink wine and play cards, then retreat to the bedroom to kiss some more. 

Each night, Crowley fell asleep with Aziraphale beside him. The angel would have one hand tangled in his hair and the other propping open a book on his lap. 

Each night, he would sleep soundly, untroubled by dreams, and each morning he would wake to a softly smiling Aziraphale.

* * *

London seemed to spring up around them and Crowley took a deep breath of the familiar, smoggy air. August hung over the city like a thick, suffocating blanket and it seemed to mute all the hustle and bustle into a distant murmur. 

They left _Ophelia_ in Little Venice and slowly ambled towards Soho. After about a quarter of an hour, Crowley had taken one of his hands from his pockets to tangle it with Aziraphale’s. 

The angel had smiled, a secret little smile just for Crowley, and squeezed his hand. 

It felt significant, somehow, now they were back home, but London just carried on around them, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. 

The shop looked exactly as he remembered it, a little worn, a little dark and dusty and to his side, Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief. 

Anathema looked up as they entered.

“You’re back.”

Her eyes fell to their joined hands and her smile widened.

“ _Finally_.”

* * *

Crowley and Anathema walked along in silence. It was not a comfortable sort of silence, like he shared with Aziraphale. No, this was the sort of silence between two people who hadn’t seen each other in a while and were stuck for what to say. The kind of silence where you fumble around the half-formed thoughts in your mind for something to talk about, whilst the pause stretches on, becomes a pregnant pause, gives birth, and manages to teach its progeny the wonderful art of awkward silences before you’ve even started your conversation. 

Aziraphale had waved them both out of the shop earlier, under the guise of having to make some phone calls. Crowley had glanced back in concern and the angel had given him a reassuring smile before shutting the door behind them. 

The worry churning in Crowley’s gut wasn't exactly helping him in finding something to talk about. 

“So,” Crowley eventually managed. “Aziraphale told me you and Newt broke up. That’s a shame.”

Anathema looked at him flatly, “That was eight years ago.”

Crowley almost wished the ground would swallow him up, but that would send him to Hell, and he wasn’t that desperate. Yet.

“Still living in Tadfield?” he asked.

Anathema nodded, “I bought Jasmine Cottage. Adam and his lot are at uni now, but they still pop by.”

“That’s nice,” Crowley said. “How are they all doing?”

It was strange to think of them as adults now, strange to think of time passing. Crowley and Aziraphale had always stayed the same, so sometimes it was easy to let the months go by, and soon those months turn into years and you don’t mean to, but you find yourself having lost touch with those people that were so important once. And they still are important, even if you only contact them via the footnotes of an email composed on an ancient bookshop computer. 

“Good. Pepper and Adam are both in various activist groups, she’s the secretary of the LGBT society, he’s the president of the environmentalists, Wensleydale is doing accountancy, and Brian has learnt how to channel his chaos into art.”

“And you?”

“Still a witch.”

They lapsed into silence again.

Anathema looked almost the same as he remembered her, but her hair had been cut shorter, so it now curled around her shoulders and there were a few fine lines starting to appear at the corners of her eyes. 

“So where did you go, in the end?” she asked. 

Crowley, who had been watching the ducks as they walked through the park, turned back to her and blinked. 

“Oh, I bought a boat.”

She raised her eyebrows. 

“A boat.”

He nodded, “A narrowboat, went to live on a canal for a bit.”

Anathema looked as if she was biting down on a smile, “You disappeared for two months to go live on a boat? Why?” 

Crowley shrugged, “Felt like it.”

“What’s this boat like?”

“ _Ophelia?_ ” he smiled. “Would you like to see her?”

He led them back towards Soho so they could take the Tube over from Piccadilly Circus. Though it wasn’t yet rush hour, the summer had brought enough tourists to make it busy and uncomfortable underground. Crowley hated the Tube, it reminded him of Hell with the masses of people shuffling through the corridors, except here the walls were sickly under the yellow lights and the posters were bright and cloying as they touted the latest West End shows. 

It was a relief to step back outside, into the shadows of the trees that lined the avenue of bright white and brick terraces. Anathema followed him quietly down to the canalside, where _Ophelia_ was moored in the gently dappled light of the shade. 

“It’s a lovely boat,” she said. “Did you paint it yourself?”

Crowley grinned, “The human way and all. The design I did myself, but I had help with the rest of it.”

Anathema chuckled, “I’ll be honest, I can’t imagine Aziraphale painting a boat.”

He shook his head, “Oh it wasn’t Aziraphale. I bought the boat off Geoff and he helped, as did his daughter and her wife.”

Crowley went to the front of the narrowboat and opened the door into the cabin, leading Anathema down into the living area. He grinned as he let her admire the interior. It was strange, he hadn’t had _Ophelia_ long, but it felt more like a home than his flat ever had. There was still the two mugs sitting unwashed in the sink, last night’s empty wine bottles lined up on the windowsill next to the Three Amigos, and, on the table next to Delilah, sat the pack of cards and Aziraphale’s current book _The Happy Prince and Other Tales_ (a signed first edition, of course).

Anathema, to her credit, had not strayed back towards the bathroom or the bedroom, but was slowly tracing her hand along the leather-bound volumes on the shelf. 

“I really like what you’ve done in here,” she said, “It’s very…” she paused, gesticulating her hands as she searched for the word, “Fitting, for both of you.”

She glanced back to Crowley, to find him holding out a set of keys.

“Aziraphale only has one bedroom, so you can stay here tonight, if you like. Or if you’d rather, I can give you the key to my flat.”

Anathema smiled, “I think I’d like to stay here. I just need to go collect my things.”

Crowley snapped his fingers and her tapestry holdall appeared on the bench seat. 

She blinked at it a moment, then murmured, “I forget you guys can do stuff like that.”

After giving Anathema a quick tour of where everything was, Crowley dropped the keys into her hand and headed outside. 

He gave her a jaunty wave from the _Ophelia’_ s bow. 

“We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Once outside, Crowley considered for a moment where he should go. He could, he supposed, try and get the Bentley back, but it was fast approaching six o’clock and traffic wardens and their ilk he found were quite like estate agents, in that they lacked the imagination needed for proper demonic interference. He chose instead to walk back to Soho, taking in a favourite wine merchants of his along the way. He bought several bottles of Gevrey-Chambertin, one of Aziraphale’s preferred wines for good news, and found himself back at the bookshop a little over an hour after he’d left Anathema. 

“Everything, okay?” he called as he entered, paying little attention to the fact that the door had been locked. 

Aziraphale came out of the back grinning. 

“Oh yes,” he took the bag from Crowley and peeked inside. “Ooh, Gevrey-Chambertin, just the ticket.” 

He started towards the back of the shop, carrying on nonchalantly, as if he was talking to Crowley about the weather. 

“Turns out Her Upstairs is perfectly fine with me carrying on as normal, I think strangely - ineffably, one might say - the old girl has a soft spot for me.”

Crowley smiled and collapsed onto the sofa. Aziraphale swatted his feet off the arm rest.

“No shoes on the furniture.”

He grinned then, wickedly, “And as an added bonus, She found out about the hellfire, so Gabriel and Sandalphon are being written up. They’re _furious._ Sandalphon called me a ‘jammy sod,’ can you believe?”

Crowley could very well believe, but he was more amused at the sheer delight with which Aziraphale had recounted all this. 

“Well that’s all good then,” Crowley said, “We can stay as we are. On our own side.”

Aziraphale dropped a slow kiss onto his lips, smiling as he pulled away. 

“Of course we can.”

He clapped his hands together and two glasses appeared on the coffee table.

“Right my dear,” he said. “Wine?”


End file.
